Nightrunners of Bengal (20 page)

She moved erratically from hoop to hoop, flushing, giggling, curtseying frequently to de Forrest and Dellamain, eyeing
Joanna ferociously, and swearing under her breath. He grinned suddenly to see her play off Joanna’s own trick against her. While simpering at de Forrest, she managed to say in a voice of boreal hauteur, “Ai don’t know, Ai’m sure, wot the position in ehr contest is, Mrs. Sewidge.”

It was no good; Caroline still stood there behind his shoulder. He had nothing to say to her. He would not face her. She said in a voice pitched so that anyone nearby could hear, “I am leaving Bhowani on Tuesday, Captain Savage.”

He turned in surprise and looked at her. He didn’t see why she wanted to go rushing off suddenly. If only she’d relax she could be a wonderful person to talk to. He said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Lightning flashed behind her eyes and died. She said, “You are not!—I apologize. I believe you are.”

A small hand tugged at his tunic, and he glanced down. Robin, bored with playing, had come to find him and stood now with his face shyly pressed against Rodney’s trousers. Rodney put down his hands and caressed the boy’s shoulders.

Caroline said, “If I have made any trouble for you, I am sorry. Perhaps it’s all over now, as Colonel Bulstrode said. But I’m running away, really—which is stupid, because I cannot escape from myself.”

He smiled, trying to bring out some lightness in her. It was difficult to smile though, because she was very slight, and very hurt; and because he was wondering if she could find in the whole world any place, any way of life, where she could fulfil herself; and because he did not think she could until she learned to laugh. She was so much his opposite that way. He could make her smile if he had the time—it didn’t matter now, because she was going.

And that was just as well. Really, she’d been nothing but a damned nuisance. A man couldn’t survive here without his blinkers and she kept tearing them off.

Joanna came up, her game finished. Pretending not to see Caroline, she stooped over Robin and cooed baby words into
his ear. Caroline’s deep eyes glowed with the strangest grey fire as she looked down at them. Instinctively Rodney tightened his grip on his son’s shoulders and bent his brows on the girl. She turned and left them standing there.

He swore silently and went up into the Club and through to the bar. It was full of men snatching a quick one before returning to their duties as husbands and fathers. On this special occasion, as on Christmas Day, the sergeants were allowed into the Club; they were all here, and the officers of their regiments were standing them drinks. Tom Hatch’s pleasant square face beamed shyly round; he was half drunk. Rodney called for a brandy and retired into a less crowded corner.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder and he looked up angrily. It was Major Anderson. “Well, Savage. You see, the musketry went off all right, didn’t it?”

“Thanks to the Silver Guru, sir.” He eyed the Major’s face, a few inches from his own. “I spoke to my company beforehand, reminded them how long we’d known each other—was it likely that I or any of us was going to try to destroy their religion?—asked them to trust me. But I found out afterwards they’d asked the Silver Guru, too.”

“Insolence! And what did he say?”

“He told them to obey orders—pointed out that if the rumours were true there would certainly have to be justice and absolution.” Rodney swirled the brandy around in his glass and averted his face; Anderson’s breath smelled sour. That affair, the Silver Guru’s intervention, was incongruous; but the man could hardly be expected to discard half a lifetime’s role as a religious oracle just because one or two people knew he was an Englishman and a part-time political intriguer. Angry again, Rodney looked up and said deliberately, “It wasn’t necessary, anyway.” That was what really annoyed him. The musketry could so easily have been put off until the air cleared. There was no need to bite the cartridges, because they could be torn open by hand; the movement was already out of the drill book.

Anderson wagged a finger in his face. “It
was
necessary, boy. You’ll learn. Give in in one place and you’ll never be able to stop. I was glad I was there to make you. So will you be—one day.”

He sidled away through the crowd, and Rodney returned to his drink. Fragments of conversation floated into his ears. “The Derby? Tournament—fours. Gleesinger a thousand to fifteen, Blink Bonny twenty, but you’d throw your money away on a filly.” “Our lines are a
disgrace.
They’re not fit for pigs to live in, let alone sepoys of the Company. Why doesn’t…?” “We’re going to Simla nex’ year. Mrs. Sculley insists, and ’oo is Thos Jos to contradict?” “I assure you, Hedges, I wouldn’t serve with Queen’s troops if they paid me double. Five-and-twenty years I’ve been out here, and I assure you Johnny Sepoy is …” “No trouble at all. Except a couple of fools in Number Four. Curry B. clapped ’em in the quarter guard. Court martial Tuesday. What? No, no nothing to do with the grease as far as I know. These two just refused to accept their percussion caps yesterday morning. Have a drink.” “A bedpan? There’s no need to whisper about it, I fear. You’re lucky, sir.
My
wife picked someone else’s flowers once, and great heavens …” “If Janki Upadhya is the next senior naik, then he
must
be promoted. Rheumatism’s got nothing to do with it. There’s no way round the regulation, and a dashed good thing too.”

Rodney, moodily gulping his brandy, glanced up and intercepted an odd look of sympathy in Willie van Steengaard’s eye. Willie!
His
wife was due to have a baby any moment. Didn’t he have troubles enough of his own? Rodney scowled at his friend, set the glass down with a crash, and elbowed out of the room.

The conjurer was near the end of his show. His ingratiating voice rattled on in Hindustani and broken English. The children looked peaked and pale; how could the poor little devils pick up stamina in this filthy climate, on this disgusting food? The conjurer waved his hand, and three pigeons flew out of his turban. Some children squealed, some
cried fractiously, most stared glumly at the pigeons, now sitting in a row on a branch.

Robin said very clearly, “Pigeon going do
maila
man’s head.”

The pigeon did. The audience dissolved in near-hysterical laughter, and there were tears and threats of thrashings. The flocks of ayahs waddled round the corner of the Club, quacking stridently.
“
Sarhe
chhe, baba, ghusl, nini, sab
hogya, baba.
”
Half-past six, baby, bathtime, bedtime, all finished, baby.

Robin was lead away, monotonously chanting, “Pigeon do did
maila man
’
s
head.” Rodney followed them to the victoria; he’d call for Boomerang in a minute and ride after them. He glanced up and thought they were in for a dust storm, for the sky had turned dark and the leaves were very still. Joanna came, to tell him that she wanted to stay and talk with Mrs. Cumming about a sewing bee next Wednesday, and would he leave the carriage for her. Ayah could wait too. That was fine; Rodney would take Robin back on his saddlebow.

The Atkinson twins and little Ursula Herrold found the four sepoys who had stayed to watch the party, and danced round them hand in hand, begging pickaback rides in a last desperate ruse to escape from their ayahs. Naik Parasiya had returned for some reason, and watched with a tortured face and pinched nostrils. Rodney thought of ordering the man to report sick, he looked so ill.

But suddenly he was stiff and tired and did not care. Everyone had enjoyed himself after his own fashion, and it was time to go home. The excitement of the Kishanpur affair had not died with the meeting at Dellamain’s, as Rodney had persuaded himself it would; as long as Caroline Langford was here he half-expected some new vivid mystery. She was the thread running through it all—even in his weeks in Kishanpur he had been trying to prove to himself that she was wrong; so she had been a presence looking over his shoulder all the time, staring down even into
Sumitra’s gaping face to see if there was murder there. He had seen her for the last time now, and the thread was broken.

He hefted Robin on to the front arch of Boomerang’s saddle and swung up behind him. Crooking his right arm round his son, he felt the thin shoulders wriggle ecstatically. This was the joy that is perfect because it has no memories. This child, this joy, was two; and he was thirty-one. Time to go home, time to relax and let age come, time to sink into the secure infinity of cold weathers, hot weathers, rains, as the sun was sinking into the hills of Lalkot. But the sun would rise again and make a million bright mornings. The weight of the unseen years settled briefly on him, and he shivered.

T
HE SUN sank as a dark red disc from which ragged
pennants of green, gold, blue, and saffron trailed
across the lower sky. The glow died out of the dusty
heat haze, leaving the air dead. The dust storm passed by
to the south, but the threat of it made the twilight black and
electric. Then the word passed. It was not even yet an exact
word, but a curse and a warning:
This is the night.
The word
ran across the plains, leaped wide rivers, and raced through
the jungles as a fire races under dry leaves. A woman tapped
on a city wall and whispered it to her neighbour. One man
cried it to another as their bullock carts passed in the fields.
It set out at sunset from every place where sepoys were
stationed; it travelled in every direction; and before the
morning of Sunday, May 10, 1857, it had crossed and re
crossed itself many times. People hurried home when they
heard it, or bolted their doors, and waited. They did not
know who was threatened this night, but it might be they.
Some prayed; some shrugged; few went abroad.

Shivarao Bholkar, Dewan of Kishanpur, held the queen of
spades in his hand, but revoked by playing the king of
diamonds. Suddenly he said, “I can’t play any more. This
is the night.” Prithvi Chand grinned and said, “Night for
what, Excellence?” and began to sing softly that Pathan
love song which is called “The Wounded Heart” and whose
words begin:
There’s a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach….
The Dewan threw the cards in his face,
and he stopped singing. The Dewan jumped to his feet, stood
near the light, and stared down into Prithvi’s face, saying,
“This is
the
night. Do you mean you never knew? We’ve
succeeded better than we hoped. I’ll tell you. Tonight
the English are going to die, all of them. The sepoys are
going to mutiny and kill them. Tomorrow the name Kishan
pur will mean again something it used to mean
—
something
India’s forgotten, yes, even you’ve forgotten. No one will
sneer behind my back after tonight. Perhaps I won’t stay
awake at night. Perhaps I won’t think of my mother every
minute of every night. I’ve prayed for this, and now
—
God,
I want to be able to sleep.” Prithvi Chand’s fat face quivered,
and the puzzled expression dissolved from it. He began to
shake all over and said in a cramped voice, “All of them?
The women and children? Captain Savage? Murdered in the
dark? Oh, India! India!” The Dewan said, “Tonight, I know
what you feel like. Tomorrow, I won’t.” He walked slowly
out of the room; Prithvi Chand bowed his head over the
scattered cards and began to weep.

The Silver Guru waited until he could no longer see the
steps at the edge of the river, close to his left hand. No crowd
was gathered under his peepul, and the Pike was deserted,
north and south. The air was so still and the land so hushed
that he could hear the Cavershams and their guests singing
“Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes” in the cantonments
up the road. He rose, picked up his bowl, and strode due
east across the fields, looking to neither the right nor the
left.

Piroo the carpenter lit a lamp in his tiny hut. He moved
with purpose and twice glanced out of the only window, a
grimy square of glass in the back wall. He took off the old
green trousers and tied on a dirty loincloth. His legs were
long for his height, and very thin. He tucked a black silk
kerchief, nearly three feet square, inside the loincloth so
that only an inch at one corner showed. He pulled a wooden
box out from under the string bed, unlocked it, and extracted
a small pickaxe, oiled and bright-clean, with a light straight
two-foot helve. He put his hand on the bolt of the door
and in that instant cringed and became another man
—
the
man the sepoys knew and never noticed. This man opened
the door and shuffled across the square, across the Pike,
and on due east across the fields, looking to neither the right
nor the left.

At ten o’clock the word came to Mehnat Ram, once a
subadar-major of Bengal Native Infantry, now retired. He
was ninety-three years old, and lay on a cot in the front
room of his house by the road from Bhowani to Kishanpur.
His skin was brown, shiny, and paper-thin, and knots stood
out at every joint; he was naked except for a pair of cotton
drawers. A man, late in from the city, ran by and whispered
the word to the old man’s granddaughter. She was fifty, and
lived here with her husband, tilling the land she hoped to
inherit. The subadar-major heard too, for he was not asleep.
He lay awhile trying to think, but always after ten or fifteen
seconds his thoughts would go off on a foolish tangent
—
his
cows … seed for the winter sowing …
oil for his pyre …
the handful of parched lentils he’d shared with the little
Ensign-sahib by the breach at Turkhipura. What a night that
was! Couldn’t remember the Ensign’s name
—
Eshmit,
Eshmoot, Eshmyte, something like that.
This is the night.
He got up and fumbled into his old scarlet uniform coat;
the trousers had long since rotted away, but his white drawers
would have to do; no boots either
—
slippers with turned-up
toes. His sword hung on the wall below a steel engraving of
Lord Lake. One of the sahibs in the regiment had given it to
him when he retired
—
a tall thin sahib. Couldn’t remember
his name. This is the night, serious work afoot…. The black
calf, something wrong with its near fore
—
bitten by a jackal?
By the gods, he couldn’t help that now; they’d want some
one to guard the barrack stores and perhaps the women and
children while the sahibs led the young sepoys off. No one
would care about his low caste at a time like this…. Priests,
money to the priests or they’d never burn him properly. He
pushed off his granddaughter’s arm. “Fool girl, stay here
with that other woman you call your husband, and guard
my estate. Man’s work afoot tonight!” He hurried west
across the dark fields towards Bhowani. Might be Lalkot
cavalry vedettes on the road, or those dogs from Kishanpur
—
high time they were all wiped out. He knew the fields as
he knew his veined hand; he felt fine…
.
Sholingur, Bhurt
pore, the frowning might of Gwalior ahead, Lord Lake;
Cuddalore, and the dark 24th and the white English soldiers,
storming shoulder to shoulder
—
young blood, rivers of fire,
the glacis’ slope and the rockets’ glare.

The word passed through the lines of the regiments. It had
started there, but few knew that
—
except, in each company
and squadron, one or two knew. The sepoys gathered in
barrack rooms where the lights were out or dimmed and
the windows covered by sacking. No air moved, and the
night temperature was 105. They strained sweating against
one another and whispered, “What’s happening? What’s
happening?” The fear and the heat melted the barriers of
rank. In the dark ovens they did not always recognize who
it was that talked and took the lead, but in each gathering
one man did
—
among others, Jemadar Pir Baksh of the
60th and Naik Parasiya of the 13th. The speaker’s voice was
always taut and urgent; the hearers were afraid already and
became terrified. The voice said, “This is the night. Shiva
—
or Allah
—
has promised destruction, and this is the night.
The Silver Guru said, ‘Until God’s promised destruction
strikes the wicked.’ Who are the wicked? We are the wicked
because we have not defended our gods. The English have
hanged Brahmins, stripped our princes, attacked our gods
in their temples
—
and we have done nothing. We have helped
them. Now they are going to kill us. They do not need us
any more. They are going to kill us, for only we can protect
the old gods they despise. We’ve whispered it and warned
you, and you would not believe. Now they’ve started
—
yes,
yes, they’ve started, haven’t you heard? They disarmed our
brothers at Gondwara last night and blew them to pieces
with the guns, and the English soldiers shot them down.
That is why the word is out. The guns are coming up the
Pike now, and the English soldiers, coming up for us” The
hearers jostled and muttered to each other, “I’m going mad
in this heat. I can’t believe it. Gosse-sahib? Savage-sahib?
Caversham-sahib? Going to kill us!” “It’s true, I tell you.
Step by step they’ve trodden us down. They will make us
sail the Black Water, they will take away all our old rights
as they took away the field allowances. You
must
believe or
you will die, all of us die, die defiled. Remember Mangal
Pande. They lied; we
know
the cartridges are greased with
defilement; we
know.
They killed Mangal Pande and hunted
his comrades down. They have two of our brothers in the
Eighty-eighth’s guardroom now. They will kill them when
the guns come, and scatter us in the fields and murder us
with the guns. Can’t you read the messages? Kill or be killed.
Do you want to die sewn up in a pigskin, and spat upon?
Kill or be killed. The guns are coming up the Pike now,
galloping all night. Can’t you read the messages? A chupatti
in five parts, signifying the fifth month. A chupatti in ten
parts, for the tenth day. Flesh, white-skinned on one side,
raw on the other
—
a big piece for a sahib, a smaller piece
for a memsahib, and a little piece for a child. On May tenth
kill all the white skins
—
or they kill us!” … I’ll die, lower
than a sweeper, defiled, hopeless for eternity. I’ve been in
here for hours and I’m going mad. I sweat and tremble, and
a hundred eyes roll, and we gnash our teeth. The guns are
galloping up the Pike. Out of here, get out of here, for any
sake get out! “We are the masters. Remember the snows
in Afghanistan and the way
we
died, though they led us.
Remember Chillianwallah
. They
are not gods. Get them
together. We will burn the court to get them out, and kill
them there. Kill the others in their bungalows. Kill the
sahibs you do not know, that pity may not stay your hand.
Pity
—
and die. Remember Mangal Pande. Haven’t we wives
and children? Who is not with us is against us. Arm your
selves. Run, run to the court. This
way.
Come with me;
you to the court, you to this bungalow, you to that. Be
silent and hurry. Remember Mangal Pande. That will be
the sign, listen for it, wait for it
—
‘Remember Mangal
Pande!’”

Rodney awoke at midnight from a light sleep. The threatened dust storm had decided them to sleep inside the house. Beyond the open windows his garden lay breathless under a full moon. By the far wall the leaves on the two peepul trees stirred, and their shadow was a patterned carpet across lawn and flowerbeds. Inside the room each piece of furniture shimmered in the half-light.

Joanna lay beside him under the sheet. Her mouth was open, and her hair spread in a yellow aureole over the pillow. Her face glistened with sweat. The moonglow, reflected from the white walls and high ceiling, smoothed out the lines of self-pity drawn in her face, and softened the pout of her lips. He looked at a ghost, pale, ethereal, and remote from all human passions. The quick shallow intake of her breathing raised her breasts under the sheet This was his wife for ever, Robin’s mother, a woman asleep, and he did not love her.

He lowered his feet to the floor, found his slippers, and poured out a glass of cold water from the earthenware jar on the table. Robin might be awake; when the moon shone he sometimes lay in his cot and stared at the walls or out at the trees.

Rodney walked quietly along into the next room. Ayah was there, asleep on her bed, her head wrapped in the end of her sari. He stared at the shapeless white bundle; she wouldn’t stir if the house took fire over her. He bent smiling over Robin’s cot. The eyes came round, huge baby eyes still, and stared back briefly; then turned away and up at the ceiling, and the mouth smiled at a secret joke. His father kissed him, and he closed his eyes at once.

Rodney went back to the big room and slipped into bed. Sweat trickled down his back and between his thighs. The moon shone like a night sun—not clear and cold but thick and living. Robin had been good at the party. He’d never been to a big one before, and considering the rumpus he’d done very well not to get over-excited or throw a tantrum. He’d made a consul’s triumph out of that homeward ride on the saddlebow, bouncing up and down, laughing, shouting in Hindustani to his friends the sepoys as they passed along the cantonment roads. The men usually gave him a grinning mock salute, and said
“Salaam, buddha sahib,”
but they hadn’t this time. They’d been too busy stiffening into a real salute for Rodney.
Buddha
—“old.” Sometimes the child did behave like a miniature patriarch; that was the pet name Rambir had given him when, as a baby, he used to wear such a puckered and care-worn frown.